Easter Weekend.

My little sister travels a lot.  Countless times each year since moving to Kentucky for college six years, one bachelor’s degree, and a house ago.  This year, we did the travel and went to Lexington for Easter.  In addition to our crazy crew, my little brother drove down from Ohio State and my dad was able to see Elise’s new house.  We played many, many rounds of Spot It, went to the park, they went to opening weekend at Keenland {sadly not a trifecta was won} and we also watched a suspense-filled final four game that we’re not allowed to mention. 

We had an Easter brunch and an Easter egg hunt… the egg hiding was hilarious and luckily someone found the one in the microwave before turning it on the next morning.  That is what happens when you let 20-somethings hide eggs and then try to remember where they are in the morning.  There *may* have also been some terribly-written Easter Bunny raps courtesy of my little brother.  I used Oma’s vintage table cloth on the table, my sister’s Kentucky horse plates, fun bird napkins from Ikea, and we indulged in some seriously decadent treats sent to us by Shari’s Berries.   The weekend was incredible and I am sure my sister and El are still recovering from the whirling dervishes that are Finn & Tate hopped up on sugar.

Here is a peek.  How did you spend Easter weekend?

 

 

 

Disclosure: Shari’s Berries sent the treats, all opinions of their incredible decadence are my own.

Snail Mail.

I have a paper problem.  Well, it’s not so much a paper problem as a paper affinity.  I love a pretty paper, a pretty card, gorgeous handwriting, and snail mail.

Oh, don’t pretend that it’s NBD*.  When you get an actual something other than a bill because we’re grown ups and that’s all we’re allowed to get apparently, it makes you feel happy.  Multiply that by about ten bajillion if it’s not Christmas, or your birthday, carry the one, square it, and THAT right there is a card that comes just to tell you that you are incredible and you mean the world to someone.  Even when they forget to tell you often, even when you both get busy, or when you never realized that they saw that thing that you did or how hard you’ve worked, even if YOU know you’re awesome, but someone else not only says it, but takes the time to write it down, and it makes it so much true-r somehow.

That feeling, THAT was my mission.

Dave’s Oma, she used to send me notes in the mail.  At least once a month.  There were thank you notes, birthday cards, anniversary cards, and just because cards.  Dave and I would come in from collecting the mail, see an envelope with her handwriting, laugh, then guess what these envelopes might contain.  She’d cut out a thirty cent coupon and spend more on the stamp to send it.  I’d get a recipe, carefully cut out with a note saying that she read something in Martha Stewart that she thought I’d like.  Dave would get a twenty-five dollar check and a note of admonishment that she realized that he had tucked the twenty dollar bill that she had tried to pay him for picking up a gallon of milk, back into her things instead of taking it home.  She’d send Finn stickers in the mail, always made out to Master Finnegan J, because she was straight old school and addressed things properly.

You do not half-ass snail mail if you are Kelly.  Even if it’s a twenty-five cent coupon or ten Box Tops for your great grand-son to take to school.  You do it right.

In that spirit, because I miss her fiercely, I wanted to give that to someone else.  It’s been a year today and it’s not much easier.  I spent the better part of two days, writing until my hand cramped, tracking down addresses and knowing that if she were still here,  she would have surely gotten one herself.  Loads of these cards belonged to her and came to me in stacks as we were cleaning out her things and she would have loved knowing that they aren’t sitting in a drawer, gathering dust.

Which brings me to you.  If you could use a little love right now, send your address in an email and I’ll send one off to you, too. 

I’d imagine, she’d love knowing she’s single handedly keeping the United States Post Office in business.

Happy Weekend, Peeps.

Stick It Out.

When we were married in 2005, I was educated, owned my own house, had a retirement account, and a whole lot of love for my future husband.  In my head, I was an ideal age.  Twenty-nine is old enough to know better and young enough to have children, if you want them.  I had travelled, dated a sufficient number to realize that Dave was an extraordinary man, and knew how to live a happy, fulfilled life on my own.  We had done pre-Cana, adopted a scruffy rescue poodle, had discussions about future children, and a system in place for handling our finances. 

I wasn’t just settling for Dave, I was choosing him.  And he, me. 

I was also probably, most certainly, very much under-equipped for actual marriage. 

I remember driving home from a friend’s lake house and telling Dave that fine, I wanted a divorce and hearing him respond in kind.  We had been married a few months.  Marriage was kind of hard work, if I am being honest.  Aren’t we supposed to say the vows, have lots of sex, get pregnant easily, have two perfect kids, do well at our careers, and love each other always?  If he was ‘the one’ it would be easy, right?   

There was something humbling about that.   You walk down the aisle and into this life you’ve never led before.  You are completely inexperienced and yet, you think you know everything because we all come packing our own picture of just what the ‘good marriage’ is supposed to be.  When it doesn’t hold up to Hollywood, or your grand-parents’ marriage of 50 years or, what you see from your best friend’s marriage, or your next door neighbors’ you feel like you must be doing something wrong. 

DID WE JUST MAKE A MISTAKE??

Now, after nearly ten years of marriage, neither of us can recall what that first huge fight was about in the first place.  We both remember that we sheepishly faced the reality that our argument had happened in the first fifteen minutes of our trip… and that we still had an hour trapped in the car with each other. 

Awkward. 

We were silent for about fifteen minutes and then,

Me: Do you really want a divorce?

Him:  No.  You?

Me:  No.  I have no idea why I even said that.

Him:  We are idiots.

Me:  Totally. 

We talked.  A lot.  We realized that even though we had moved in together when we got engaged, being engaged or living together is not the same as being married.  You might like to think it is, but it isn’t.  Kind of like you think that having children will be the same as life before children. 

Spoiler Alert, your life changes when you have children.

I learned quickly, you can’t just kick someone out when you get into an argument.  Oh, I mean, you can yell, “GET OUT of my house,” but then you realize that regardless of who’s name is on the mortgage, it’s their home too and you will feel like an idiot.   He learned that he had to communicate frustrations instead of ignoring them.  We also figured out that the only people who belong in our marriage, is us.  My sisters, his best friend, our parents, his boss, my Facebook feed… they don’t get a say, a vote, or to weigh in, and our marriage is not their business.  Ever.  

In the several hundred arguments we’ve had since then, we’ve both learned that a little empathy for your partner goes a long, LONG way.  

I know this in no way guarantees that Dave and I will stay married forever.  The reality is, marriages that I thought for sure would last forever, fail.  Marriages that were bad ideas from the start have lasted for years.  There are no guarantees, there is only the work, the love, the day to day, the fun, the hurt, the laughs, the frustration, the big stuff, the little stuff, and the fact that we’re both still willing do get up each day and choose each other.  Even on the days when that choice might not feel as fun as packing up and moving to Aruba and surrounding yourself with pina coladas and room service.

Or so I’ve heard.

Mondays.

Since the stroke, which Meme likes to refer to as the ‘thing that happened,’ my mom and her siblings have assigned days that everyone is responsible for calling or visiting.  She’s convinced it was my mother who cracked the whip on her siblings, but it wasn’t, though Janet is pretty whip cracking, I’ll give her that.  The daily calls and the stipulation that we could install an emergency alert system in her house, is the deal to keep her independence.  It’s all slightly BS.  Secretly, I believe that they’re all afraid of her stubbornness and she’s just humoring them by allowing these daily check ins, but whatever works... 

Shortly after the ‘thing that happened,’ Dave was over there helping to install something and Meme was filling him in on these daily calls.  “I’ll be glad when this stage of my life is over.  Everyone is calling and checking in on me.  They think I’ve kicked it if I don’t answer the phone right away,” she said.  He chuckled a little because he already knew about the call schedule.

Then a few minutes later, “What are they going to do about it if I do kick it, anyway?  There’s not a damn thing any of them can do.  When it’s your time, it’s your time.”

Now though?  I think that she enjoys, or maybe just graciously allows, the intrusion into her daily routine by the brood she claims as her own. 

Tate and I have Mondays. 

We drop Finnegan off to school and go over and have breakfast with her.  Tate asks her for the 47th time just why Meme likes her oatmeal with milk and Craisins, when she likes hers more firm with brown sugar and cinnamon.   Meme fills  me in all of the family updates, including phone calls from my cousins in Chicago.  She announces at least once each visit, how absurd it is that my aunt does her laundry when she’s quite capable of going down to the basement to do it herself.  Oh, she gets it, she assures me, “They don’t want me going up and down the stairs with a basket.  It’s just not necessary when, I can do it myself.”  I tell her to enjoy it, humor her children, and to send Sue over to do mine if she doesn’t want the help. 

The talk lately, is of March Madness.  She’s not sure how she’s going to fill out her bracket, her past winning streak means she has a reputation to uphold.  Let’s not forget the woe that her beloved Buckeyes stink this year.  Priorities people, basketball is undoubtedly in her top three... we just aren’t sure if family comes before or after it.   She asks about Bo-Bims, which is what she calls my sister, and fields in depth questions from her great granddaughter about if she really knows Aunt Punka and just how she does.  Apparently, she is satisfied by Meme’s answers and I am convinced that Lyndsey will never be called her real name by anyone, but me. 

Tate has already moved on to the entertainment portion of our visit and twirls her way through the living room.  She pairs the excited whirligig with non-stop chatter about her imaginary sister, Heinje.  “We’re ice dancing!  Me and Heinje are the best ice dancers!”  Meme agrees and pays for the performance with a  belly full of Club crackers.  Then she makes a power play when I answer the phone, she turns on Disney channel for her.  When I raise an eyebrow, she simply pretends in her old age that she doesn’t see me because she’s concentrating on the remote buttons.  I now know where her loyalties lie.  They sometimes draw funny things and Meme tries to convince her to tell everyone that she is TQ’s great-grandmother, not because of her age, but her excellence.  “Tate, you can just tell everyone you call me that because I am so GREAT!  Don’t you think?” 

Yep, Meme.  We kinda do.